For certain sums of gold, which you denied me;
For I can raise no money by vile means:
By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,
And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring
From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash,
By any indirection. I did send
To you for gold to pay my legions,

Which you denied me: Was that done like Cassius?
Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?
When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,
To lock such rascal counters from his friends,
Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,
Dash him to pieces!

CAS.

BRU. You did. CAS.

I denied you not.

I did not :- - he was but a fool That brought my answer back. - Brutus hath rived my heart:

A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,
But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.
BRU. I do not, till you practise them on me.
CAS. You love me not.
BRU.
I do not like your faults.
CAS. A friendly eye could never see such faults.
BRU. A flatterer's would not, though they do
appear

As huge as high Olympus.

CAS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius,

come,

Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,

For Cassius is a-weary of the world:
Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;
Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,
Set in a note-book, learned and conned by rote,
To cast into my teeth. O, I could weep
My spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,
And here my naked breast; within, a heart
Dearer than Plutus' mine, richer than gold:
If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;
I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart.
Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for I know,
When thou didst hate him worst, thou lov'dst
him better

Than ever thou lov'dst Cassius.

BRU.
Sheath your dagger:
Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;
Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.

O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lamb
That carries anger, as the flint bears fire;

Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,
And straight is cold again.

CAS.

Hath Cassius lived To be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus, When grief, and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him? BRU. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered too. CAS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.

BRU. And my heart too.

BRU. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine:

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

MERRY Margaret,

As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;
So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly

Her demeaning, -
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,

Sweet Pomander,

Good Cassander;

Steadfast of thought,
Well made, well wrought;
Far may be sought
Ere you can find

So courteous, so kind,

As merry Margaret,

This midsummer flower,

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower.

"Twixt the souls of friend and friend. But upon the fairest boughs,

Or at every sentence' end,
Will I Rosalinda write;

Teaching all that read to know
The quintessence of every sprite
Heaven would in little show.
Therefore Heaven nature charged
That one body should be filled
With all graces wide enlarged :
Nature presently distilled
Helen's cheek, but not her heart,
Cleopatra's majesty,
Atalanta's better part,

Sad Lucretia's modesty.

Thus Rosalind of many parts

By heavenly synod was devised;

Of many faces, eyes, and hearts,

To have the touches dearest prized.

Heaven would that she these gifts should have And I to live and die her slave.

SHAKESPEARE.

PHILLIS THE FAIR.

ON a hill there grows a flower,
Fair befall the dainty sweet!
By that flower there is a bower
Where the heavenly muses meet.

In that bower there is a chair, Fringed all about with gold, Where doth sit the fairest fair

That ever eye did yet behold.

It is Phillis, fair and bright,
She that is the shepherd's joy,
She that Venus did despite,

And did blind her little boy.

Who would not that face admire ?
Who would not this saint adore?
Who would not this sight desire?
Though he thought to see no more.

Thou that art the shepherd's queen,
Look upon thy love-sick swain ;
By thy comfort have been seen
Dead men brought to life again.

NICHOLAS BRETON

A VIOLET IN HER HAIR.

A VIOLET in her lovely hair,

A rose upon her bosom fair!

But O, her eyes

A lovelier violet disclose,

And her ripe lips the sweetest rose That's 'neath the skies.

A lute beneath her graceful hand
Breathes music forth at her command;
But still her tongue
Far richer music calls to birth
Than all the minstrel power on earth

Can give to song.

PORTIA'S PICTURE.

"